I didn’t think I would miss it.
The way the sky crumples in the summer
leaving the hawks and butterflies
sprawling for their bedrooms.
The lovely taken out of heat,
the sky one big muscle,
cramping and cramping until we feed it
everyone we know who is remarkable—
the dandelions, my father, new history.
It’s the summer we love our bodies most.
We don’t worry what we are eating,
we stop crossing our fingers.
The cement hot and dreamy,
the birdsong new.
Soil cracked where the blueberry bush died.
It’s the way laughter sounds underwater—
I cannot tell if you are laughing or screaming,
hurting or remembering.
Small daffodils bowing their heads,
white bees tangled in the sycamore,
sun dust like dandruff in her hair—
I forget you are my mother.
It’s the summer our bodies become cyanotype skin
scorching into the under.
This way our stomachs are forever.
